


Black Jewels/Inception Crossover ficlet

by AirgiodSLV



Series: Black Jewels/Inception Crossover [2]
Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop, Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It’s late evening, ten days from Winsol, and Eames is in Ariadne’s bed.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Jewels/Inception Crossover ficlet

Arthur prowls the halls. It’s late evening, ten days from Winsol, and Eames is in Ariadne’s bed.

Arthur paces the corridors until the guards start to get nervous, and then calls witchlight and heads out to the practice circle in the courtyard, sheltered from the worst of the weather so that it can be used during the cold dark of winter.

A few of the guards follow him out, grateful for the chance to move and warm themselves instead of standing, bored and restless, at the gates. They’ve all sparred with Arthur before, and must know they’ll end up in the dirt, but they’re good sports about it and tend to see him as something of a challenge, a potential victory to one day be won.

Today, however, is not that day. Arthur puts them all down mercilessly, one after another, the physical exertion doing nothing to burn out the hot anger and jealousy still raging in him. He doesn’t allow himself to think of Eames with Ariadne, covering her, of Ariadne taking him inside her, the two of them moving together. That doesn’t banish the knowledge of it.

The Master of the Guard arrives quietly outside the practice circle just as Arthur puts his latest opponent down hard enough to bruise the man’s tailbone. He steps back, forcing himself to end it there rather than finish the kill the way he instinctively yearns to do, and the guard limps off to the company of his fellows, an awkward joke preceding nervous laughter and a few glances thrown in Arthur’s direction.

Arthur ignores them, letting his breathing even out, sweat cooling. It’s cold outside at this time of year, and he shouldn’t stay bare-chested in the courtyard for long, but right now the air feels good on his hot skin.

He turns toward the Master of the Guard and nods acknowledgement. Saito nods gravely in return, accepting the invitation to approach and offering Arthur a dry cloth for him to towel himself off.

“It would be better,” Saito says mildly, “if some of the men I assign to stand guard are in a condition to fight during their time on duty, should they need to do so.”

Arthur pauses briefly, then rubs down his sweaty arms and chest, fighting down the hot surge of anger. “My apologies,” he replies formally. “I will take more consideration in the future.”

Saito smiles slightly; as much as he ever does. Saito is Hayllian, and several thousand years old already. He makes Arthur feel incomparably young, with his dark eyes that have seen centuries beyond any of the rest of them.

“They are the ones at fault,” Saito allows. “But they are young, and can never resist a challenge.”

There’s more to this visit, Arthur knows. He remains silent, waiting for it.

Saito bows his head again, acknowledging the point. Folding his hands in his sleeves, he says casually, “You saw our Queen through her Virgin Night, did you not?”

Arthur goes still. On the surface, Saito’s question seems to serve no purpose besides reminding Arthur that he, too, has known Ariadne as a woman, as a lover. Knowing how Eames will feel in Ariadne’s embrace while they are intimate, however, does nothing to soothe Arthur’s temper.

“Your point,” he requests. At another time, he would be happy to play these games of verbal thrust and riposte with Saito, but not tonight.

Saito doesn’t take offense at his brusqueness. “Merely a reminder that you, too, know what it is serve where your own interests may not, perhaps, lie.” Saito’s tone is perfectly even, which doesn’t help Arthur’s desire to challenge him to a fight in this circle.

He understands the point Saito is making, though, which is why he nods stiffly and concedes.

That, it appears, is their primary business dispensed with. “If you are looking for another pursuit, I believe Yusuf is concocting a new brew in his workroom,” Saito suggests. “Perhaps an intellectual challenge will fulfill needs which the physical cannot.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, bowing again briefly before he returns to the warmth inside.

He wanders for a few minutes before deciding to take Saito up on his suggestion, but Yusuf’s workroom is in the same wing as Ariadne’s rooms – and Eames’ as well, located besides hers, as the Consort – and Arthur has only taken a few steps down the corridor before the rich, heady psychic scent of sex hits him like a wave, swamping his senses.

He stiffens, then whirls around and stalks in the opposite direction.

Cut off from the practice circle, as he has no doubt Saito will reappear to evict him if he returns, he takes his aggression out on trinkets, blasting china figurines and lace doilies into dust until he reminds himself of the housekeeper’s wrath in the morning and forces himself to stop.

His rooms feel like a cage, the oppressive dark outside pressing in against the windows, claustrophobic and smothering. Arthur wants to rip the furniture apart, to tear claw-marks down the bed coverings and reduce the chairs to splinters. He wants to destroy, and there’s nothing here to hold him back.

His door opens. There’s a Red-Jeweled shield around his rooms, and Eames walks right through it.

Arthur’s nostrils flare. Eames has at least had the consideration to bathe, but Ariadne’s psychic scent is all around him, richly feminine, dark and potent. He watches Arthur from across the room with glittering eyes, the door closed behind him and blocking out everything else but the two of them. Then he straightens up and takes a step forward.

Arthur snarls.

Eames doesn’t pause, taking another step, and as soon as he’s within striking range Arthur launches at him, weight and momentum bearing Eames back against the door. Eames absorbs the brunt of the impact and uses the remainder to pull Arthur the rest of the way into him, their mouths meeting in a fierce, messy kiss.

The knowledge that Ariadne has had this, had Eames’ hungry, open mouth and his slippery tongue already tonight whips Arthur into a fury. He devours Eames’ mouth, obliterating any trace of Ariadne that might remain and replacing it with his taste, his skill, his desire. He tears at Eames’ clothes, using Craft when physically ripping them apart isn’t fast enough, and drags him away from the door, shoving him down onto the bed.

He’s ruthless, biting down on Eames’ shoulder until the taste of blood fills his mouth, rutting against him so hard that there’s more pain than pleasure in it and stripping their cocks raw in the too-dry clench of his fist. Eames bucks up to meet him, biting Arthur’s tongue when they kiss and scratching his nails down Arthur’s back, fighting him for every inch.

Arthur has heard, from Warlord Princes who frequently share the company of women, that a witch can exercise control in the bedroom, can soothe and restrain. That the act of being taken into a witch’s body can take the edge off a Warlord Prince’s aggression and calm him, providing strength and shelter.

This is nothing like that. They tear at each other with teeth and nails, leaving marks that will darken into bruises, snarling and spitting. Arthur squeezes Eames’ balls and Eames yanks viciously on his hair, and they both go tumbling off the bed to the ground in their wrestling match to determine who’s on top.

Arthur thrusts into his hand, wrapped around both of their cocks, and comes all over Eames’ stomach, marking him. Eames takes longer, probably because he’s spent himself already once tonight, and that thought makes Arthur pull at him harder, moving faster until his fingers are a blur and Eames comes, choking.

Eames’ release quiets something in Arthur, allowing his rage to cool gradually, by degrees. When he finally recovers himself, he can feel Eames watching him, waiting.

“Is it always going to be like this?” Eames asks finally, and Arthur doesn’t know whether he means the two of them together, or Eames being summoned to Ariadne’s bed. His answer is the same either way.

“I don’t know,” he says.

When he finally turns his head, Eames is frowning. “Prince,” he says quietly.

Arthur’s lip curls. “Consort,” he replies, cold.

He feels the wave of frustration a moment before Eames pins him, hands hard and pressing down heavy against the bruises rising on Arthur’s arms. “ _Arthur_ ,” he says, as fierce and desperate as the kiss he uses to claim Arthur’s mouth, ravaging him as thoroughly as before but more restrained, this time, the violence tempered by weariness and satiation.

Eames presses his lips to Arthur’s neck, and Arthur cradles his head, fingers threading through Eames’ hair, now damp with sweat. They lie together quietly for a time before Eames shifts, his lips following the path of marks left by their coupling and by Arthur’s earlier sparring matches against the guards.

“Eames,” Arthur whispers when Eames strays lower, pressing one last kiss to an angry mark across Arthur’s rib cage, his tongue tracing through the mess splattered low on Arthur’s abdomen. Eames ignores him and takes Arthur’s soft cock into his mouth, suckling and laving him gently with his tongue. Arthur inhales sharply, his hands gripping Eames’ hair, toes curling until he can’t take it anymore and has to pull Eames away, up into another kiss.

Eames starts to say his name again, but Arthur cuts him off, swallowing the sound. They kiss and touch until the chill of the room sets in, and Arthur’s body begins to feel the ache settling into his muscles as well as the shivering cold.

When Arthur can’t hide the gooseflesh breaking out across his arms and Eames’ movements slow, growing stiff, they break apart. Arthur shakes his head before Eames can say anything, and moves up onto the bed from the cold floor, turning back the bedclothes.

“Stay,” he says, and Eames takes the invitation, sliding warm and solid into bed beside him. His arms come around Arthur, and Arthur doesn’t resist, winding close and soaking up the warmth of Eames’ body tangled with his, closing his eyes and breathing.

They don’t let go until morning.


End file.
